


Walking With A Ghost

by anglophrenic (ladyswarthington)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyswarthington/pseuds/anglophrenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is not exactly seeing things, but he's not exactly past believing that Sherlock is haunting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking With A Ghost

John doesn’t  _see_  Sherlock’s ghost, not even in his most drunken or depressed or weak moments. But that doesn’t mean Sherlock isn’t haunting him.

One night soon after his death, John swore he smelled Sherlock in the flat, smelled him in a way that was different than the stale smell of Sherlock’s _things_ and Sherlock’s  _clothes_.  And more than that, even, John swore he saw a few of the books on the bookshelf slightly askew. He noticed them askew, though perhaps they’d been that way since before Moriarty’s trial.  But John was used to sitting in that room for hours at a time and staring at different places, different points on the wall and on the shelves. He knew how everything had looked, and suddenly something was different one day when he’d returned from a lunch with Harry.

It jolted him enough to search the rooms, to fling back the curtain and scan the streets from the window. He found nothing else, nothing except those books to be amiss.  _Maybe I’m going insane_. He told no one.

Then, a few weeks later, John was out for a walk. He’d taken to walking around London; he was unable to stay cooped up in the flat in the evenings, and he was too exhausted to think of moving anywhere else. Besides Mrs. Hudson had offered him free room and board for as long as he needed, and he got the feeling that she needed his company as much as he did hers. They both saw the same thing in Sherlock, the thing that other people missed; they both loved him. They were both devastated, more so than anyone else, when he’d… left them.

“Jumped.” John said to himself, rounding the corner. “He jumped, and he died. He killed himself.” His therapist was making him refer to Sherlock’s death in concrete terms as a coping mechanism. She noticed him slipping, often, into the present when he referred to his flatmate. “Former flatmate,” John corrected himself. “Dead flatmate. Bashed-his-brains-on-the-pavement-and-left-me-alone flatmate.”

There aren’t other people around, or else John would keep his voice down. But it’s two in the morning on a Wednesday, and John’s leg is beginning to ache again. The pain is a good distraction, so John walks faster. Talks louder.

“My dead flatmate has died, committed suicide.” He recites. “Dead as a doorknob, Sherlock Holmes is dead. He is dead and he does not come into flats and move books anymore. He is dead. Sherlock Holmes is-”

In front of him, maybe fifty feet or so, John notices a figure. He quiets himself, his mouth ghosting over the word “dead” because he can’t let the sentence go unfinished. Anger is causing him to tense, more anger now than grief, and John walks faster to pass the sudden spectre coming toward him. He wants to be alone again, alone on the streets of London, hiding between the tall buildings where he can talk to himself without feeling daft.

He averts his gaze, looks down at his feet as they press into the cold concrete, when the two of them get close enough to make looking ahead awkward. _Terribly British, this,_ John thinks to himself as he pretends not to notice the man passing by him. When they cross each other, John feels a bit funny, feels that he should be back at the flat and trying to sleep like a normal person. As he’s thinking this, as the man has just passed him, John hears a sharp intake of breath; a sniff, a savoring of something in the air. He doesn’t think, but looks back; the man is heavy-set and sort of waddling along, short hair askew and wrapped in a dirty old windbreaker. It’s got yellow and blue triangles, and when John breathes he can smell the stench of alcohol and mud and urine. It’s nothing, a drunk or near-drunk who’s staggering—John’s stopped walking and can see that the man is definitely having trouble holding himself up at this point—back to some crowded apartment or a warm alleyway.

But something about that sound, that purposeful sniffing of the air, reminds John of his dead flatmate. And so he doesn’t turn, stays there and watches the drunk wander down the street; he watches him until the garish coat turns and the man is out of his sight.

“My flatmate Sherlock Holmes is dead.” John Watson begins again, speaks to no one in particular. Then he begins walking forward again. “Sherlock killed himself. He’s dead.”

 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Three years later, almost to the day, John Watson is lying in bed with Sherlock’s warm body wrapped around him like a blanket. They’ve finished some time ago, two men learning the art of self control and the pleasure of mutual orgasms, and they’ve stopped talking but John is still awake and running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It’s shorter now, a bit, but still curly and John knows that Sherlock can drift off to sleep when he’s being petted this way.

Suddenly, from his place on John’s chest, Sherlock draws in a deep breath. It’s not a sigh, exactly, and it startles John until he feels Sherlock smiling into his skin.

“I came back from Estonia to smell you, once.” Sherlock intones. “Mycroft was absolutely livid when he found out.”


End file.
